To Kill For, To Die For
by Napoleon Error
Summary: A one shot based on the old RP-system Cyberpunk 2020. A look into the life of a solo working as a Trauma Team enforcer.


**A/N:** This one-shot idea just wouldn't leave me alone. Hope you like it. I might even expand upon it in the future, though not likely until I get my other stories finished.

**To Kill For, To Die For**

Hi, my name is John and I'm an addict.

Don't get any wrong ideas choomba; I'm not addicted to drugs or synthol like most other screw-heads. Hell, I'm not even addicted to killing like the more fucked up solos from different corporate Black Ops. What I'm addicted to is far more insidious.

Coffee.

I'm serious here, choomba! If I don't get my quota of 20 cups a day, I get a tick. If I don't get 15 cups, my fingers start to twitch. And trust my, in my line of work, that can kill. No, no, not me or my buddies, but those bystanders that get pointed with my gun. And gods help those around me if I get less than a cup an hour during my work day. One busy day, that happened. I don't remember too much of that afternoon, but I did wake up in a C-SWAT cell, twitching like a Booster on a bad trip, apparently queued up for an immediate braindance and removal of anything and everything mechanical in my body. You know, all that Not-Nice-Stuff they warn you about in those pamphlets. Before they had the time to rip out my left arm, right eye and parts of my spine; my partners from work managed to contact them. A few cups of coffee later I was feeling a whole lot better. Before they let me out of my cell, they implanted a subdermal LPA-transceiver (like they do with everyone they take in), kicked me out (literally) and send the bill on mail. Since they couldn't charge for an inappropriate call (I had wrecked the lounge and two office rooms), they put the price tag on those coffee cups. Over 1k per cup.

What's an LPA-transceiver? Oh that's easy. It's a small machine that goes 'ping!' when someone presses a button. That way they can make sure it really 'is' (was) me 'if' (after) they 'decide to' (have) 'detain me' (shot me full of holes) in the middle of the street. That's their standard MO at least and I doubt they'll make an exception for little o' me. Whadda ya mean you want details? Oh hell, you're a grease monkey ain't ya? Should've known. Only a techie would get that manic gleam in their eyes when someone mentions a gadget.

But yeah, back to my story. There was a small upside to getting arrested. After that, my addiction was classifiable as a medical condition, so according my contract the company had to pay all expenses. Lucky me. Of course I should have known better than to think that was it. You see, somehow my taxation forms suddenly got lost in the econ-department and according to some obscure company rules that exact amount had to be deducted from my next month's salary. Or it would have, had my pay been enough to cover it. So they took the remaining part from my pension. Bastards.

But hey, at least they didn't kick me out. Apparently, I'm just that damn good at killing people.

Whadda ya mean, I'm making you nervous? Build a spine will ya. Or fix it or something. You're twitching.

Well, after that, my boss agreed to fix the old coffee machine in addition to buying a new one. And installing a third one on the AV I work in. Told me it would be a lot cheaper on the long run. Of course, I've been saying that damn same thing for over 2 years. But did they listen? Ya get two guesses and the first don't count. But that wasn't the end of it, oh no. They also demanded I go see Twister. He's the office psychiatric, trying to keep us all bolted tight on the head. Of course, it's us solos carrying all that cybernetic hardware that keeps him most busy (C-psychosis and all that), but this was the first time I went to see him. It was also the last, so far. After five minutes of interviewing me, a short braindance and an analyzed blood sample later (it was cleaner than his table), he called me the most fucked up (but still sane) human ever. He also said to never talk to him, unless I was getting 'normally insane'. You know, like trying to bathe in blood or rip out people's intestines. I never did take his recommendation of boosting high on combat drugs. At least those he could treat, he had claimed.

But me, I stay away from that drug shit. If normal coffee could fuck me up this bad, what would a shot of Terror, or Puma, or even as relatively mild as cocaine (not to mention it's synthetic counterpart) do to me? No sir, never did do no drugs, sir. Maybe that's why the other solos at work look at me so odd. Then again, they look oddly at Mack as well and he does boost quite a lot. But he is a borderline section 9 anyway. That's where they send those people cybbed up to be forgotten, to do suicide missions and… well, if I told you more, we both would be shot. Comprende, choomba? Yeah, 'night missions' and all that. Like I said, even my company has some use for those 20-25k hardware guys that only have few meat components left. You know, the kind that would immediately get wasted by C-SWAT extermination teams should they ever meet them.

It saves the company plenty of pension money as well. Yeah, the corporations are all sons of bitches that take away our freedom, own congress and all that yadda yadda yadda shit. Look choomba, I've heard all that before. And look at us, we might not be the smartest chip in the box, but we ain't the dummest either, right? Okay, Fix-It, don't laught at me like that. I might not know all about Gerards five cybernetic watchacallits and all that shit, but I know how to fix my arm. So tell me, if you hate the corps so much, where the fuck else would I work? Who else had the need to hire a solo of my caliber? Okay, everyone, so you got a point there, but who has the money? Okay, okay, sheesh… You're starting to sound like some whiny rocker boy. Shoot your attitude, will ya? No need to pinpoint us to those Boosters across the street. I don't want to waste the ammo. What, you didn't see them? Looks like I'm not the only one who could learn something, eh kid?

Hey, don't look at me like that. But yeah, work ain't that bad. Look, the company I'm with does save people. Sure, those running the show are as money-hungry egoistical bastards as any other guy in a suit. But at least they help. And I get an exiting job with good cash. And there are times when I don't even have to worry about getting shot. You know, coffee breaks and all that. It's good to just step back from the edge at times. It's relaxing, choomba. Hell, I even get to see the sights occasionally. Yeah, our company can violate the flying zones above the inner city sectors. One time I even walked on Corporate Sector pavement. Choomba, that felt _good_. For a moment, just a moment mind ya, I felt like I lived on those clean streets.

Hey, a man can dream right? Besides, my boss is an understanding fella. He's down with us. This one time, _after_ they got the new coffee machines, I was doing pretty alright. We was taking a break you know, in the lounge right next to the launch pads ya see. And I had a hot cup between my hands and I was about to take a sip of that good stuff and then… well, the alarm blares and my team gets called out. Some corp exec had strayed from his home and gotten hit by a car. Normally, we don't handle those cases, Corporate Zones have their own branches, but that time they all were busy with some chemical leak. So we were sent out, we pick the guy up and the doc patches him good. Corporate Zone and all, so the team and AV were as safe as it gets. You know, we could almost relax, the pilot and me. And I was making myself a cup with on the back, but the guy is thrashing around on the bed, refusing to be sedated. He hits my machine, the coffee spills on the floor.

But hey, I figure, just 10 minutes or so and we'll be back at the lounge, drinking coffee. So I'm cool. The small tick on my head doesn't think so, but I'm cool. It's been only 20, 25 since I had my last cup. So, no problem.

Of course, karma likes to fuck with people. We had had our dose of good luck that day. It was time for the bad.

We barely touch down at home base, when we get called again. This time we heading to Combat Zone, northern side. You know, the area with more Boostergangs than broken windows. I start to make some new coffee for me, but before it's ready, we get there. And boy, did they need me. Some group of stupid edgerunners was pinned down. From what I picked up later, they had managed to get involved with two rival gangs. They were trying to shit them both in a gun deal or something and get away with the Eurodollars. Of course, the world doesn't work that way, not without a hell of luck or owning the biggest gun in the neighborhood.

One was bleeding, the three others were about to go down. The concrete wall they had taken cover behind was getting smashed to pieces by all that shooting ya see. So the pilot, Freddie, parks down on top of a smashed van. Hellova pilot that Freddie. Anyway, I jump out and open up with my M16. Yeah, I like classics, so what? Anyways, I mow down about half of them before they realize we are here for the stupid group of cheaters. They decide to open up on us. Big mistake. They get a couple of rounds off at the now empty back section of the AV. The doc and his partner jumped out while I was giving them cover. So, Freddie lifts up a couple of feet, turns 180 and opens up with the 25 mil' autocannon mounted on front. A bloody mess was all that was left. So, he sets down again and the docs bring the patient on board. We give the guys on the ground the address of the clinic where we bringing their friend and get out.

Back in, I find that one of those few shots the Boosters got off had hit my coffee machine. No coffee for me.

By this time I'm getting a bit annoyed, ya see? But no matter, a few more minutes and I'd be back at the lounge.

But no. The Boosters had gone down too quickly. Karma was still out for a vengeance.

So this time, when we touch down by the clinic in Yellow Zone, a firefight start right next to us. And an idiot had tried to rob the clinic. He made about ten feet outside, when the hidden security turrets make him disappear in a red mist. 4000 rounds-a-minute, at rifle velocities, does that. Too bad, part of that turret burst hits our exhaust. Nothing to worry about on a normal day. But karma….

So the engine blows up. We are stranded there, with no coffee machine. A bar is nearby, but the burst from the security turrets apparently made some people inside antsy. Things go to hell, shooting begins and bodies begin to pile up. Now, normally we wouldn't bother. I mean, they want to kill each other, I say let them. They are stupid enough not to duck, they don't deserve to live.

But this time, I had tick. I had it bad. The finger twitch was there as well. My buddies, coming back from the clinic, take one good long look at me. They look at the bar. And just like that, they see what I'm thinking.

There has to be coffee inside.

Of course, they're not suicidal. So they hand me my sidearm from the AV, a Militech M4 SMG, with an extended clip. A real beauty. Then they step back.

So I go in, shoot a couple of guys that were in my way and look at the bar. Sure, the place was pretty wasted, choomba, but the coffee machine was still A-ok. Again, things area about to go FUBAR, but then karma stops. She's had her fill of the day from me.

A burst comes from the side, but misses both me and the coffee machine. Some gung-ho family type (no, not that kind of family. You know, The Family. The one you never quit if you join. yeah, _that_ family) thought I was a hired gun or something, supposed to take them out or something like that.

But I don't shoot back. I don't think them enemies just 'cause they shoot at me. No money in that shit. So I turn to them and say 'Hey choombas, I'm not here to fight. I got nothing against you. I just want a cup of coffee. That's it.'

So they relax a bit. The guy who almost shot me looked a bit sheepish. What? What's a sheep? How would I know that, it's just something people say, ya know?

But karma came back for one last kick in the ass. The coffee machine was empty. The vending machine next to it was also empty. The owner was dead, so no-one to ask where he keeps his coffee. But then I smell it. No, I ain't got no metal glands in my nose to hype my sense of smell. But I still smelled it. It was coming from near the guy those family types had been protecting.

He had a cup filled with the _good stuff._ So I'm thinking, is it worth it? The tick in my eye says 'yes!' and before my brain can say anything, the twitch in my finger agrees.

But hey, I got my cup of coffee, no one ever found out it was me who killed the guy (or I'd been dead already) and I walked out of there with just a few sparks coming from my cyber arm. In the end, my boss simply said nothing and even paid for the ammo and fixing my arm, just like if it had been an official mission.

I said, don't look at me like that! I already told ya I don't do no drugs. Yeah, I hear ya, those chew-2 fumes _can _get to your head. But really, that was the truth, so don't look at me like that. And look, I know this ain't no paradise and the megacorporations make sure it stays that way, but still, it sure as hell beats Combat Sector, eh?

Oh, sorry. How long did it take for ya to climb out of that hell-hole?

Yeah, I can respect that. Took me 15 years myself. Climbed out on the shoulders of my dead parents as well. Life is a bitch ain't it? And I ain't talking about no decent input either. Choomba, you look like a decent fellow. How 'bout ya give me your number, I might call you for some work sometimes. My eye hasn't had a decent look-see in about a year or so and there's only so much ya can fix with only a single eye. Not to mention I can't touch my spine that well with a screwdriver. Yeah thanks, you know how to reach me. Just call for Trauma Team and we'll come down from the skies, flying to the rescue!

Look kid, I'll say this one more time. I ain't got no imagination. No, I didn't shit you. My story is real. My name is John Voliani, I'm a Trauma Team enforcer and a coffee addict. Got a problem with that?

Oh. How long has the tick been there?

Right. And how long has my cup been empty?

45, you say. That sounds about normal to me. Now be a good lad and get me a cup of coffee will ya. No, forget milk and sugar. I drink it black.

Ahh, that's perfect. Thanks, choomba.

You know what, take my one-shot Trauma Emergency card. I can always say I lost it. Yeah, just break it down the middle and I guarantee you an AV from us will touch down within 6 minutes right next to ya. Just don't bleed dry before that.

Yeah, be seeing ya choomba. Oh, kid! Buy a better gun holster, will ya? That Arasaki 57 Special ya got there ain't hidden. Anyone can see what ya are packing and 57 just ain't that good. I would hate for ya to die on me before I can use that discount you promised.

Yeah, watch out for Boosters as well. See ya!


End file.
